Tom Lloyd: The stormcaller

Bahl wrinkled his nose, unconvinced. He doubted even the most alert guard could notice Aracnan's passage if Aracnan didn't wish to be seen, and his Chief Steward tended to threaten his subordinates in a more direct fashion. It was strange to hear the storyteller use Aracnan's name, though: Bahl had been acquainted with Aracnan for more than a hundred years, yet he knew almost nothing about the man. Even the rumour that Aracnan had been the one to teach Kasi Farlan, the first white-eye and last of King Veriole's line, how to use a sword was unconfirmed. That was before the Great War, seven

thousand years ago. Bahl could believe it. Immortals kept their secrets close, and no mortal had eyes like Aracnan's.

The little Bahl had picked up about this current story was enough for him to want to meet the boy Aracnan had apparently wanted to talk to. Aracnan had his own agenda, but sometimes he was commanded by the Gods themselves; whatever his purpose, it was always worth investigating his actions.

An old man sitting by the fireside coughed obviously. Bahl guessed he was the usual storyteller in this tavern, and had not taken kindly to some dirty wagoner taking centre stage. A love of stories and mysteries was at the heart of Farlan culture: a Farlan liked nothing so much as to tell all manner of grand tales, washed down with a drink or four. It was a poor tavern indeed that couldn't afford a resident storyteller to entertain the customers.

The elderly man smoothed his beard and shuffled in his seat as he played his audience. Bahl smiled inwardly; Aracnan's greatest feats were known to only a handful of people, and there might well be even greater exploits that had gone completely unnoticed by history.

'Aracnan is as mysterious as the Gods themselves,' the old man began, his voice pitched low to make his audience listen the more closely. 'Some say he fought at the Last Battle. Perhaps he is one of the cursed Vukotic family.'

He paused, allowing a mutter to pass around the room as men frowned and gestured and murmured incantations under their breath, invoking protections against the cursed. Superstitious fools, Bahl thought to himself, only daemons are attracted by speaking their name.

The old man cleared his throat again, regaining his audience's attention. 'Maybe he's a daemon that wanders the Land. Nothing is known for sure, except that he appears without warning, often just before a battle. He commands his own fee and takes no argument. Do you remember the late Duke Helrect?'

I he one who killed his wife and became a monk?' asked one of the more vocal listeners.

I he storyteller nodded gravely. 'He did become a monk, but I heard rom the Captain of the Guard there a darker tale. It was rumoured

at his wife was a sorceress who consorted with daemons and wanted

enslave the city. The duke's mage tried to denounce her, but she struck him down before he could reach the palace.'

Bahl grimaced at that. The woman had been ambitious, true enough, but hardly a creature of evil. The mage had been more than a match for her mean abilities, just not impervious to arrows. He said nothing. Stories had a life of their own. Sometimes in a land of magic there were forces that changed even truth. He turned his attention back to the old man, who was imbuing the story with high emotion now.

'Then she barricaded herself in her tower, and any man who neared it fell dead. The captain told me that he was taking counsel with the duke when, despite the locked doors, a daemon appeared in the chamber – to kill them all, or so they thought. The daemon named himself Aracnan, and said he had been sent to their aid. He told the duke to enter the tower at first light – and then he was gone. The duke broke down the tower doors at dawn and found his wife, torn into a thousand pieces, and all of those pieces scattered over the room.'

The storyteller paused with a theatrical shudder. The duke went to offer thanks at the Temple of Death and was told by the priests that the price of their master's aid was that he must renounce his title and become a monk.'

He turned back to the wagoner and addressed him directly: 'You're wrong. Aracnan doesn't work as an agent of Bahl; he is older and more powerful than even our Lord. It's said that he is a messenger of the Gods. You should have sent the boy with him, rather than cross him.'

The wagoner belched his opinion of the storyteller. 'Perhaps, but I don't believe that my son has any destiny except to cause me trouble and carry cloth for the rest of his life. He's no good for anything else, that's for sure – can't take orders that don't come with a whip, so not even the Swordmasters will want him. At least the scroll your daemon wanted to give the boy will fetch a few coins, though less than he has cost me over the years, more's the pity.'

'I still say he wanted nothing good with that boy,' a voice broke in. Bahl turned to look towards the new speaker, but kept from meeting his gaze. The man wore white on his collar and Bahl had no wish to be recognised yet.

'Carel, Nyphal is not watching over the boy, so keep your fool mouth shut,' replied the wagoner. Bahl assumed they were good friends for no one spoke to a former guardsman like that, no matter how silver his hair might be, unless they were close.

'What did the scroll say?' someone called out.

'Can't open the damn thing. Carel here reckons it's magical, that

only the boy can read it, but the lanky bastard won't touch it. There are some symbols on the outside, but what they mean, Death only knows.' He belched again and sat back as he felt the beer rising in his throat, then wiped his cracked lips while looking expectantly at the

crowd.

After a few moments Bahl signalled the bartender to give him another. 'And what price for the scroll?' he enquired. This way was worth trying first.

'To you? More than you could afford. I have enough trouble with my son; the thought of having to deal with another white-eye makes me more than thirsty.' The man glanced over to his friend, the former Ghost, and Bahl saw he was flanked by four armed men, no doubt wagon-train guards.

A bulky mercenary sitting off to the left chuckled, and eyed Bahl's fine armour with the smile of a thief. With a nod to his companions he stood. His thick jaw marked him a half-breed: Farlan mixed with one of the nomadic peoples, maybe. The Farlan were an elitist people, but even those regarded as inferior stock could look down on a white-eye.

'Perhaps you should buy us all drinks, white-eye. Or donate those fine gold rings at your waist. Very exclusive tavern this is; not just anyone drinks here – not unless they're stupid, or willing to pay for us all.'

Bahl looked down and realised his cloak was open enough to show the dragon-belt at his waist. Four thick gold rings hung from it, worth far more than their weight. The man couldn't take his eyes off them; his stubby fingers stroked the hilt of his dagger. Before anyone could blink, Bahl had drawn his broadsword and levelled it at the man's throat. Crackling threads of light danced up and down the five-foot-long blade before fading to nothing around Bahl's glove.

The mercenary looked deep into Bahl's colourless eyes and utter panic showed on his face. A bolt of lightning leapt from the blade and the mercenary spun in the air as it threw him backwards. He hit the edge of a table and crashed down on the floor. Sparks and tongues of flame danced around the room so ferociously that even the fires and lamps shrank back in fear.

No one else moved. They all averted their eyes, desperate not to be next to attract Bahl’s attention. Bahl's free hand bunched into a fist, and he sought to compose himself. Tonight more than ever, his rage was close to the surface; it felt like a red mist of violence lurking at the edges of his vision. He drove it back down, and as he calmed himself he noticed how the new odours of burnt flesh and urine cut through the air.